True Loss
by Spider Milkshake
Summary: A two-part story of how to discourage pompous, royal, insensitive, annoying young wildcat warlords from war. The secret is easy-the transformation is not so. Targ, though, is ready to help... (Descriptions of gore, Redwall swears, OCs)


**True Loss**

Part 1

* * *

Despite the bumpiness of the road, the game of chess was going as smoothly as it could for Squire Chealse. As they rounded another corner on the Northern Path he defeated yet another of Cathar's dwindling pawns with his favorite piece, the Queen. Not a very manly confession, perhaps, that he wished to have the power of a queen, but he had to admit it was the best damned piece in this newfangled game.

"Can't ya just let me win?" Cathar was exasperated and annoyed beyond anger at being beaten dozens of times in the course of the journey. The weasel page leaned uncomfortably on the edge of the jangling carriage, trying to ignore a hoverfly exploring his inner ear in detail.

"I could, but then it'd be dreadfully boring for myself." The wildcat smirked and awaited the weasel's final attempt at a move, "Besides, whose service are you indentured in again?"

"Yours, Sir Chealse..."

"So you'll play until I get bored, and not a minute sooner."

Before the spat could expand into a full-on verbal assault, the carriage ground to a halt. Stiffening, the Squire scrambled to catch the few chess pieces that tipped over the edge of the ornate little table.

"What in Hellgates is—"

"Sir, some sort of battleground ahead," the rat in the driver's seat called back, flicking his whip nervously over the backs of the paired ranks of slaves providing the power for the royal cat's ride. "I suggest we hang back a touch, or send ahead some soldiers to see if the coast is clear..."

"You suggest, eh, what do you know of ruling?" the wildcat pushed his way past the scuttling rat servants hastening to secure the cargo within the carriage from where it had toppled, "I'm in charge here as I ever will be. Move this carriage forward; I want to see what this is about."

The rat driver gulped nervously at the lump in his throat but obeyed, tapping the first pair of slaves across their backs with the limp hanging end of the whip. Cautiously the mixed species of enslaved creatures crept the carriage forward, keeping their heads low and fighting to point them mostly forward. The rat driver did not seem to be in any hurry to rush them or spook them, and kept the commanding slaps and taps to a minimum.

"Oh, what are you so bothered over?" The Squire snatched hold of the long-handled tool of slavery and cracked it loudly over several of the front-runners' ears, "You care so very deeply for some wretched slaves, who deserve to be chained anyhow. Delusional! Now get this thing moving, really moving, or I'll have you arrested and replaced. I've brought plenty of soldiers along, as you'll remember..."

The rat obeyed with his front teeth buried quite far in his tongue, pain preventing him from voicing his opinion of the young ruler. The slaves hauled faster, eyes widened and glancing this way and that. They stepped over each others' footpaws and tails, edging forward on the borders of panic.

The carriage was bumped down a slight hill, then up an incline. The slaves strained against their ties, and then they were over. From the crest of the hillock, through the thin screen of thrashed trees and shrubbery, all beasts ground to a halt and stood speechless at the sight.

The color in the glade seemed grayed out, though this was likely due to a haze of smoke still lingering amid the foliage. Not a single plant still grew in one piece from the churned soil-many paws and claws had been at furious work here. And all about were the bodies, or the pools of blood and the occasional bit of viscera where a corpse had once lain. There was a thump from behind Squire Chealse and his weasel aide; one of the rat servants had fainted.

It took even the young wildcat several moments of blank-eyed staring for him to gather his wits. One retractable claw shot out, indicating a lone figure crouched to the left of the path, right by the extinct battle site.

"Bring us up to that beast there. Ask it what took place here!"

The wheels creaking and the slavechains clanking as the carriage and full complement approached did not seem to perturb the laboring figure until they were close enough to see that the creature was a male weasel. He was covered in grime, and where his fur was less corrupted several tribal tattoos on his arms, face and chest could be seen. What little light entering the clearing blinked off the many piercings adorning the mustelid—his ears were weighted with them, as were his eyebrows, and two silver-colored studs poked out from his lower lip. His eyes, a fiery red, glinted also as he turned them on the approaching party.

The wildcat's gaze was drawn to the lonebeast's eyes, and then to the spade that was grasped tightly but nonchalantly in both paws. He couldn't say how, but the manner with which the creature stared him down levelly, all the while leaning upon a spade dug deep in the soil, unnerved him. He put up his paw as an obligatory greeting.

"Good evening, strangebeast." He hopped down from the driver's seat and onto the step-up, his form liquid-smooth and hopefully impressive to this northern heathen, "I am Squire Chealse, Lord of the Southern Heights and Master of the Tiyran Empire to the Southeast... What name do you go by?"

"Ge' on thee fancy cart an' git go'n' afore Ah make ya, ye ken."

"I... beg your pardon?" The cat blinked. Several of the rats shuffled.

And the weasel turned his blood-colored eyes on the huddled slaves.

"Aye, an' loukit 'ere, 'e keepen slavebeastes on y' chain ta, what, pull his mighty cart o' dungrags, huh. 'Ere's a beast 'as ne'er seen 'ard or lightnin'fall!" With a resonant plunk of spittle on the ground, the creature turned away, hacking at a pile of earth with his spade and tossing clumps of the soil down a shallow hole as if the caravan no longer existed.

In a rage as he was finally able to piece together the weasel's strange dialect, the cat leapt down from the step and came to within claws' length of striking the impudent native. However, he stopped when the mustelid straightened with the speed of a serpent, half-facing the larger beast with sharp shovel head pointed at his outstretched paw.

"Ah wouldn't if Ah were thee..."

"I would dispense with your name, longbody. You are one stringy mutt, and I have a full troop of soldiers who slay at my word." The wildcat's eyes narrowed to shade the light of fear oozing from them, "Choose wisely."

The weasel turned back to his digging. "Ah'll oblige thee, meat'ooks, gi'en thine rats keepen 'heir distance..."

The Squire waved a paw to the rodent contingent, who shuffled back and went to uneasily tending the slaves' restraints and the spokes of the carriage's wheels.

"Targ."

The wildcat snorted. What a barbaric name.

"And your business here in this place, Targ?"

"Getten rid o' yonder corpses. Aund goots."

"Charming..." The wildcat wiped fastidious paws upon the lapels of his cloak out of habit. He had been almost able to ignore the rusty stench of distant carcasses, but now that his attention was centered on their presence (and the sight of several broken ones in the dusty haze beyond the weasel) he could hardly contain his revulsion.

The weasel slowly cracked a smile. "Som'thin' bother ye?"

The wildcat sneered. "Not at all." He paced to the side, appearing as if he were pondering but really it was to bring his gaze away from the splattered remains, "I was just puzzled by the sheer mass of carnage in this out-of-the-way little patch of woodland. Did you see what occurred here?"

The weasel turned away, digging away at the crusty mound by the hole. It was going shallower and shallower, something red-stained and vaguely resembling a fox even in the battle smog steadily disappearing. Just as the Squire was about to lash out in his impatience the weasel began speaking in a low voice, eyes still on his gory task.

"Aye. Ah seen yon battle. Ah was abeam foreste here ere the war parties arrived." He blew out a sigh, "T'ere weren one group t'at be a clan of nomad foxebeaste. 'Hey rangen here last season, foragen, hunten. In morn, 'hey foxes comen to yonder pines, an' 'hey stopped at ta stream for to fill up 'heir waterskins for travel. Ta h'otters… 'Hey were no' amused nor joyful 'bout t'at."

"Otters?" One of the slaves, a young shrew, murmured excitedly to his partner on the pullshafts. The old squirrel shushed him swiftly as a rat soldier passed by, who had heard but was beyond caring about what slaves of the wildcat Squire muttered to one another.

"Otters dwell on these lands?" Chelse repeated the slave's words, though not his sentiment. His slitted eyes cast about warily by the side of the clogged and muddied stream ahead.

Targ chuckled, seeming to enjoy spying the cat's discomfort. He continued what he had witnessed.

"Aye, h'otteren, a whole Holt an' plentiful at arms. Slingen stones 'hey did, an' throwen javelin. Ta foxenbeastes was old 'uns… bairns, only some of 'hem were warriores. 'Hey stringen up bows, but h'otteren charge with longblade an' knife. What ye see be what remain of ta foxen."

Squire Chelse realized he was standing upon a tuft of bloodied ginger fur and drew back. Targ smiled in a grim way with a shake of the head. The final scoop of dirt fell upon the fox body in the pit and concealed it, and the weasel undertaker packed it down with the flat of the spade.

"Ghastly business to be smiling over!" The wildcat snarled with hatred at the mocking look on the weasel's face, but Targ was undisturbed. Frightfully so. He waved to the wildcat, beckoning him to follow his path across the tarnished land.

For a moment the cat hesitated, glancing back to several of the shuffling soldiers almost in a manner of seeking council. The rats, unused to their Master valuing their opinions (or indeed their lives), offered nothing but blank-staring silence. Unfulfilled, he turned back to the tattooed weasel strolling off amid the corpses and mist, already beginning to disappear.

And so he followed.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Targ's dialect is very much taken from actual pronunciations of Old English, especially the "-en" plurals and the "e"s present at the ends of lots of words. These ought to be pronounced pretty obviously if read out loud, in your best faux Scottish-ish pseudo-accent (because I know most people can't do a correct Scottish brogue).

The time in which this story takes place isn't important either; it could really be any time period in the Redwall continuum. Though it's clearly somewhere in the time of one of the published books, "contemporary" to some part of the Redwall universe's plot, but the exact time is not important. Know though that Targ is quite out of place, older.

Last note, he is not a normal weasel. At all. Magic~~~~

:D Enjoy-Part 2 arrives sometime next week.


End file.
